


Immortality, Part Two

by Hannibals_Jorts



Series: Immortality [2]
Category: Penny Dreadful (TV), The Sandman (Comics)
Genre: Closure, Death, Endings, Grief/Mourning, Hospital Scenes, London, Moving On, New Beginnings, Old Friends, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 12:44:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7533256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannibals_Jorts/pseuds/Hannibals_Jorts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Clare has devoted his long, long life to looking after the grave of his most beloved friend, Vanessa Ives. Now, his little antique graveyard is being closed down, and he must consider what, if anything, comes next. After performing his nightly routine and settling in for the night, Death pays him a visit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Immortality, Part Two

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason, the ending of the show hit me really hard. Immortality Part One was my way of dealing with the show's 'death,' and I suppose this is my way of moving on without it. 
> 
> I've loved the Sandman books for almost twenty years, and when I'm sad that a favorite character in some other fandom has died, I imagine how their interaction with Death of the Endless would be. John Clare is my favorite male character from Penny Dreadful, and I decided that these two needed to have a chat.
> 
> Please let me know any comments or suggestions you have! :D

**2016**

 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Clare. I _really_ am. But the National Trust just doesn’t see the point anymore.”

They stood in Mr. Lazenby’s little poky office, surrounded by beige: glossy beige metal filing cabinets, beige matte cinder-blocks like bricks of cheap ice cream, beige filing folders full of plans now made futile.

Mr. Lazenby was standing, shaking his hand, his eyes wet pools between his wiry gray brows and wiry gray mustache.

 _He has that look he gets when he’s waiting for me to say something and tell him all will be well. To think, when he first took over the graveyard he was afraid of me; wanted me sacked. Now he’s all but apologizing for it._ With a start, John realized it had been over a decade since Lazenby had taken over from his predecessor.

“I... I see,” he forced out. “That’s a shame.”

“It is, it is.” Lazenby’s little, soft hands released his own.

The old man turned to look out his window on a sea of brightly colored billboards. The graveyard was fifty square yards of green and gray among the stone, glass, and signage of London. “I felt like we’d really hit our stride, this past year. We had that children’s ghost story hour, and the Christmas pageant…And the young people really seemed interested in it, with all the pictures they take.” He shook his head, the mustache sweeping from side to side.

“They’re truly going to pave it over?” John Clare heard himself ask.

“Incredible, what? You know, in America they throw great piles of money at places like this. I suppose that’s the downside of being surrounded by history… If you don’t watch out, you run out of space for the future.”

Clare nodded. “I suppose.”

Lazenby looked up at him, and patted his shoulder.

“Don’t you worry, my good man. You’ll get a good-- No, the _best_ reference from me. I’m retiring, but there are dozens of people in this city who consider a good word from me as high praise. You won’t be out of work long, I can promise you.”

 _Only dozens? In the whole of London?_ But the old man was in earnest, and John couldn't be angry. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been angry, come to think of it. 

“Thank you, Mr. Lazenby.”

Lazenby’s watery eyes crinkled. He held out one of his fussy little hands again.

For want of anything else to do, John shook it.

“You’ll be paid through the end of the week. And they won’t start the construction until May, so you’ve a few weeks to move your things out of the caretaker’s cottage and find somewhere else.”

_My things... a few pairs of trousers, an old shirt, and mountains of books._

“Ah… good.”

Lazenby clapped him on the shoulder. “Fare you well, Mr. Clare! It was a pleasure working with you!”

“And you as well, Mr. Lazenby.”

 

There are few people as unnoticed in the world as the gravedigger.

Who has time to notice the figure in the shadows when one is staggering away from flowers and casket? Who raises their weeping eyes and pauses to wonder who he is, beyond a moment’s distraction? Some - acquaintances attending the funeral who were distant relatives, coworkers, friends of friends, all less affected by the ceasing of someone’s life - might cast a glance toward the strange man off to the side. They would take in his coveralls, his tools, and in passing decades the little steamshovel he operated, and shudder, and turn away. They barely even noticed his white face or his owlish golden eyes. When they did, they wore looks suggesting that it was mete a person who tends the dead should also look like them.

He had lost track of the Lazenbys over the years, to be honest. There had been over a dozen, men and women with forms and intentions, and no real interest in him outside of his tireless efforts at keeping the place up.

He mostly left the decisions up to them - except the ones that mattered. When there had been talk of _moving_ some of the graves -- like the ones known to belong to children-- to make room for a reflection pond, he had strode into the current Lazenby's office and informed them there would be no changes. Most loudly and pointedly informed them, in fact. And they had listened. 

But for the most part, he kept to himself. The last body had been interred fifty years before, and then the city decided there would be no more additions, that the graveyard should become a 'point of historical interest.' And things had been very well. 

But now, that was over. 

 

He finished his night as normal. He walked Lazenby out of the grounds and locked the gate. He performed his rounds, setting things to rights in the tiny museum, and dusting them. He emptied the trash, cleaned the single restroom, put away his mop and broom, and then locked the office. He checked that the doors and windows were locked, and secured the rusty iron gate in the back wall of the cemetery.

And as he did almost every night after his workday was done, for over a hundred years, he went to see her.

She lay in a small, walled garden with a few other forgotten well-to-dos. Grass covered her mound, which he took care to fertilize and water above all other plants in the garden. The day was fading, but he had a book, a lighter, and a packet of candles, which he preferred to electrical light.

_Why would anyone use a torch when words come alive in candlelight? How they flicker and dance! How one’s eyes pursue them across the page, like wild things running ahead of hounds! There is a magic to it, that will never go away completely._

He lifted his fingers to his lips, then pressed his fingertips to the plain, chiseled gravestone as he sat beside it, reaching into his elderly backpack for a book. His fingers slid between the cover and press of pages. He paused, frowning.

Footsteps were rustling on the grass.

_Someone’s just outside the wall._

“The graveyard’s closed,” he said. The hard timbre to his voice was usually enough to frighten away teenagers. If they kept coming, he would stand and face them. In the century-and-a-quarter he had kept the grounds here, revealing his appearance had been enough to drive anyone away.

The footsteps kept coming, sure and regular.

“I said we’re closed,” he said, setting his book aside and rising to his feet.

A slight, feminine figure stepped into view. She stood framed in the doorway, one hand on her hip, head tilted in curiosity.

He dropped his face, the dark hair swinging forward in a curtain.

_Young people, here to take photographs of themselves posing among the stones._

“I’m sorry, Miss. We’re closed,” he said, his words soft. “Hours are from eight to five… although we’ll be closing for good, this weekend. You can come back tomorrow.”

“Do you know me?”

His breath caught. A surge ran through him, a tangle of feelings like bright, dusty ribbons: excitement, hope, and most of all, recognition, as of an old friend not seen in years. 

 _I know her… don’t I?_ He resisted the urge to look up. _How could I? The only people I’ve spoken to for fifty years are either dead or Lazenby._

“No, Miss,” he replied, keeping his head down. “I don’t know anyone.”

“Yes, you do. Look at me.”

The face was lovely, the loveliest he’d ever seen, for the simple reason that it seemed glad to see him. Fine-boned and bloodless, the girl had black lips and large dark eyes, and all was crowned by a mop of ebony curls that moved as if in a breeze, even in the still air.

Within her eyes, he saw welcoming darkness.

 _They are doorways: they’re the shadows under the open blanket as you slide between cool sheets after a long day of toil; they’re the last flicker of darkness under your eyelids before you fall asleep… they’re the respite inside a house full of loved ones, waiting to welcome you home and hear about your day._ A yearning he had been sure was dead opened inside of him and he felt a sob grow in his throat. _I’ve been alone for so long..._

He swallowed. “Yes. I know you.”

The tangle of hair moved. “Do you mind if we sit?”

He shook his head.

“After you.” She gestured at the flattened grass below him with a slim, black-nailed hand, then moved to join him. As she walked, silver bangles on her wrists rang out soft music.

They sat at the same time, she crossing her legs easily under herself, he sinking into a hunch, his white fingers splayed on the knees of his worn corduroy trousers. Their knees were almost touching. 

She smiled at him and leaned back, pressing white hands into the turf. “I saw an old friend of yours. Just a few days ago, in fact. That’s what made me think of you.”

 _Lily,_ he realized. Surprised at the hard knot that formed in his throat, he coughed to clear it. “Did-- did she find peace?”

She looked up at the sky, at a the first star of the evening. “She tried. She got more lifetime than most, and she made the most of what she got. As far as peace goes, I couldn’t say. You’d have to ask her yourself.”

“Will I see her again?"  A tremor of hope, absent for decades, rose in his voice. He leaned forward. "And... Vanessa?”

Again, she shrugged. “I couldn’t say about that, either. Only you know what waits for you.”

He leaned back, sighing.

_How could I know? What waits beyond for creatures like us, risen from the dead? Would that Lily and I had faced it together. Poor Lily... I hope something kind awaited her._

She tilted her head forward, curious. “In all this time, all these years you’ve been in the world, you’ve made no friends? No one special?”

He shook his head. “None like them. I just... I got used to not looking for them, I suppose. It was so easy to forget how lonely I was. I had my books, and my work, and her to listen… It was enough.” He rested a hand on the grassy mound. "She never wanted anything of me but my company. Victor... Victor wanted me to be a testament to his ability, a grand and shining example of his brilliance to set upon his mantel for all to admire. The Putneys wanted me to be shepherd to their flock of monsters. Lily... Lily wanted me to be a cog in the machinery of her vengeance on the male sex. Vanessa wanted nothing but to give me some soup and talk of poetry. Who else have I known like that?" 

“People’ve changed a lot, since your day. You might give them another try.”

_I’ve tried too many times…_

He looked up at the sky. A tiny gleaming dot crept through the clouds like a wandering star, and for a moment he couldn’t identify it.

_Aeroplanes… I forgot about them. They’ve been around for… Well, I don’t even know what year it is, much less how long people have been using aeroplanes. Imagine, cramming into that fragile little thing, and launching across the clouds… Boats were dangerous, but at least you might land in water, and cling to wreckage. There was some slim hope of survival. How could one survive a fall from that height?_

His eye fell back to Vanessa’s weathered headstone. With a start he realized the birth and death dates had faded away and he’d never noticed; his eye had simply filled in the missing years. All that remained was the dash in between. 

_How brief, yet how fierce they are!_

She said his name; none of the names others had given him, or any of the names he’d given himself. She spoke his _real_ name, the name his mother had given him and his wife had whispered into his ear when they made their son.

_My name... No one has spoken my real name in over a hundred years… I’d forgotten what it sounded like. I have been called so many other things since I died, but never that…_

Her arms were open, waiting. 

_But... but I had forgotten so much..._

She tilted her head. “Can’t decide?”

“I... I can't.” He looked down at his feet, ashamed. “I’m sorry, I know I’ve had more time than I should…”

“Nah.” She smiled and waved him off. She stood, dusting grass from the seat of her pants, and offered him a hand. “Come on, I want to show you something.”

He took it and pulled himself up against her wiry strength. Her hand felt cool but alive, the bones tiny and delicate.

The air changed, and he started and looked around himself. “Where are we?”

“The Mayo Clinic, in Jacksonville, Florida.” She curled a finger at him to follow her.

“In America?”

“Yup. Intensive Care Unit. Don’t make a big deal about it; strictly speaking I’m not supposed to do this.”

No one spared the pair a glance as they passed through the hallway, which was all glistening tiles, shiny chrome, and reflective glass. He flinched from the reflections as he usually did, until he realized he couldn’t see himself or her at all.

_Perhaps I’m having a dream, after all these years. Perhaps I’ve finally fallen asleep again._

“Here we are.” They stopped in the doorway of a room with two beds. One bed was empty.

The other bed was surrounded by a cluster of people. Half the group wept and wrung their hands; the others wore dark blue medical uniforms and feverishly worked on the bed’s occupant. In between the shifting bodies, an older man sprawled on the bed. His beard and hair were salt-and-pepper, his skin waxy. His closed eyes were smudged by purple shadows, and his mouth hung open. 

“What’s hap-?”

Her finger pressed to his lips to shush him. “Watch.”

A machine was moved into position, and two flat objects pressed to the man’s bare chest.

_What are they doing?_

“Clear,” someone shouted, and all stepped back from the bed.

The body surged.

Clare dropped to his knees as a piercing spike of pain ripped through his scalp. For a moment, every healed scar on his body blazed as if they had reopened all at once. He feared he might collapse to the floor in a disordered heap of limbs.

“Oof, sorry,” she said, laying her hand on his head. “You all right?”

As quickly as it had come, the pain went. “I… I am.” He rose to his feet, catching hold of her proffered hand to steady himself.

She pointed at the bed. “Look.”

The gray-haired chest rose and fell. A gasp of air sucked into the man’s throat. The medical attendants busied themselves with checking his pulse and the readouts on various monitors. The other group let out a collective gasp and clung to each other, crushing napkins and Kleenexes to their tearful faces. A small child looked around with shining, fearful eyes, and for a moment stared directly at them.

Clare pointed at the man on the bed. “He… He was…”

“Dead,” she finished. She took his hand and began pulling him out of the room, walking backwards. “Now he’s not. Pretty neat, eh? The mortals have been doing it for some time, bringing people back with electricity. Not with the same success that Victor had-- none of them are immortal, for one thing. But still, you’re not so alone as you thought.”

“No... “ he cocked his head, suddenly curious. “Is it not your role to end life? Why would you urge me onward? Why show me something that would give me hope, and make me want to continue?”

“Was I?” She shrugged, her white shoulder rising up to brush the black tangle of hair. 

He stopped walking. They were again in the cemetery, his things lying by the grave. The single star still gleamed overhead, as did the aeroplane.

She let go of his hand and stepped back, looking up at him.

_Her eyes... They promise me rest, but is that what I want?_

“I don’t remember you, from the first time,” he said, dropping his eyes as if confessing. “But I’ve known you so many other times in my life.”

She opened her arms again. “I’m here, now.”

From the corner of his eye, he took in the welcoming arms, the expectant look. 

_I am not yet ready for that._

He shook his head.

“You’re sure?”

He nodded. “I… I will spend my time more wisely, I think.”

She grinned, the black lips spreading back over glistening teeth. “Glad to hear it, to be honest. There’s so much life out there to be had-- just the things that’ve happened in poetry alone are worth hanging around for, and there’s so much _else!_   Music, food, fashion, cars... But listen…”

She reached for his hands, and he gladly gave them to her. Her fingers pressed his.

“When you’re ready, you’ll find me. Yeah?”

“Yes,” he whispered, smiling down at her.

“Right, then.” She spoke his name again, and, “I’ll see you around. Look after yourself, eh?”

“And you.”

She stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek, and then turned away. He watched the lithe form move through the shadows until it disappeared.

He bent to collect his things. Upon straightening, he regarded the grave.

“I know you aren’t really in there, Miss Ives. You never were. You’re with your God, now. I wish I had known you better… I wish I had told you my name. Even if it was against regulations.” A half-smile again hitched one side of his black mouth. “Anyway, I’ll tell it to you now. You shall be the first person in over a hundred years to hear it.”

He whispered it to her, and then again, like a passage of song repeated for the sake of enjoyment rather than refrain. Once it was out, he tightened his grip on the backpack's strap, and drew himself up straight. 

“It seems that Death knows my name-- has always known it, in fact. Perhaps it's time I reacquaint myself with life. I’m going now. I don’t know where, or what I should do, but I shall find out when I get there. And when I stop walking, wherever I am, I shall look around, and the first person who doesn’t shy away, I shall ask them their name, and tell them mine. And I shall try to be a good friend to them, as good a friend as you were to me.”

He nodded.

“I love you now, and always will. Goodbye, Miss Ives.”

He turned away, just as the second star of the evening shone forth.


End file.
